


I Told You So

by compos_dementis



Category: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compos_dementis/pseuds/compos_dementis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England's King, America's Empire, Canada's heart, France's Saint. Everyone loses something in the end, don't they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Told You So

**Author's Note:**

> Written to "God Says Nothing Back" by the Wallflowers.

_Seems like the world’s gone underground,_

_All gods or Heroes, dead or go down_

_As teardrops from the hole in Heaven come_

_Overhead like ravens, dropping down like bombs,_

_And through the morning’s silver frosty glow,_

_God says nothing back but “I told you so.”_

 

Arthur wanted to believe in Heroes, especially because he had had firsthand experience with them in the past.

 

Today’s heroes – fireman, policemen, bloody search and rescue officers – they couldn’t ever compare to his beloved King. The rain would fall in London in heavy buckets, splashing his skin like tears until he felt himself flaking away; and he cursed himself for ever getting his hopes up, then.

 

A shaking, curious little boy, with wide blue eyes and a dirty face. Trembling, skinny hands that would grip the hilt of a gleaming sword and pull it free from the harsh embrace of stone.

 

The rain fell. It seemed like it had never fallen back then, but perhaps that was because the friendship (the love) that Arthur and Arthur held was a shield to all that tried to quash it.

 

The rain fell now because England had lost his beloved King; the rain fell because the age of Heroes had long ended, and there would never be another again.

 

Arthur Kirkland knew better than anyone that there were no such things as Heroes.

 

 

\----

 

 

_God bless the void of my daydreams,_

_Head back in the snow, making angel wings._

_Slow-motion dancing lights in dawn_

_Sail beneath a burning yellow sun._

_Come out from the deep ends of my bones,_

_No, time says nothing back but “I told you so.”_

It had been such a very, very long time since Alfred had seen anyone at his doorstep, let alone England.

 

He remembered being small, when he and his Empire (his older brother, his family, his everything) would make snow angels together in the Jamestown Christmas. Remembered when Arthur would smile at him through the blinding lights of a New Year, and tell him to grow up nice and strong, to protect the both of them in the coming hardships.

 

Remembered when Arthur would scoop him up and spin him around so he could make believe that he could fly (because flying was always an escape from having to think about the time when England would leave him there again). How he laughed until his face hurt, until his lungs ached for breath; how Arthur did the same.

 

Remembered the look on England’s face when he’d handed Alfred that dreaded slip of paper: “Taxes.”

 

Times had changed since then; he was no longer a little boy, but a grown man, his own independent nation and independent person on top of that. He didn’t need Arthur anymore; didn’t want Arthur’s influence or advice or criticisms (just his praise and pride).

 

Arthur looked no different now than he had then, but Alfred knew that he had changed.

 

Especially when he stepped forward and looked Alfred in the eye, and seemed to become frigid. All of the love that had once been held there, all of those daydreams and lullabies and soothing words had left him, replaced with this bitter cold.

 

Alfred supposed that time did that to a relationship.

 

He supposed that unrequited love did as well.

 

 

\---

 

 

_Still waters rising in my mind,_

_Blackened deep smoke behind my eyes;_

_Last night I could not sleep at all,_

_I hallucinated that you were in my arms._

_To be in your heart, I filled my own;_

_But love says nothing back but “I told you so.”_

Matthew had tried – actively tried – not to fall in love with France.

 

Some times were more difficult than other times; sometimes Matthew remembered when France left, promised to return for him, and instead gave him away like an object. Sometimes Matthew remembered when France would look at him with those sad, sad eyes, planning the hand-off to England. Sometimes Matthew remembered France’s voice wavering on those last few “I love yous” as if he wasn’t sure he really meant them after all.

 

But other times… well, other times, Matthew remembered when France cried after giving him away.

 

He had wanted so badly, back then, to lift a shaking hand and wipe those tears away. All of that bitterness and heartbreak he had felt during the signing was gone and replaced with this swelling love that threatened to consume him from within. Even after it was over, and when he was safely inside of his own home and away from France’s devastated expression, he still felt it on his skin like fire.

 

The guilt.

 

Maybe if Matthew had only stepped forward about his feelings. Maybe if he’d spoken up earlier. Maybe if he had only loved France more… maybe if he hadn’t been such a disappointment.

 

Maybe France would’ve stayed.

 

His brother understood more than anyone else, and sometimes Matthew called him in the middle of the night to try and talk about another one of his dreams. The dreams where France… loved him back, or even the ones where France would use him for comfort like he did Spain or Prussia or everyone else.

 

Matthew didn’t love France like a father, or a brother, or an uncle. He loved France the way that he knew France loved England, and anyone that understood that… well, Matthew was impressed if they were honest.

 

He dreamed of holding France close to him, of climbing up into his lap and taking fistfuls of his hair and kissing him hard enough to bruise. He dreamed of France crying out his name, and him crying out France’s name, and sometimes when he woke up, that cry would echo around his poor empty house, and he would make up some excuse when he had to clean up the sheets.

 

France was everything that Matthew had ever wanted.

 

And Matthew was everything that France would never need.

 

 

\---

 

 

_Still here, we’re climbing every rung_

_Someone saw something, someone speak up_

_Back on every broken bridge I cross_

_Open up these graves, let these bodies talk_

_Baby don’t do these but red and gold_

_Death says nothing back but “I told you so.”_

He heard others complain of their losses. America would whine about losing the War of 1812. England would sob about losing the American Revolutionary War. Germany would turn to him with bitter eyes whenever World War One or Two was mentioned – as if it was all his fault that the Germans were idiots.

 

No. They had no idea when it meant to lose, not the way that France had lost.

 

France had lost everything he’d ever loved, at one point or another. Lost Arthur to Arthur’s love for piracy, lost Matthew to Arthur’s hunger for power…

 

And lost Jeanne. Oh Dieu, that had been so long ago, but it felt so… so recent, every time he would open his eyes after one of his nightmares.

 

Joan of Arc. The most beautiful, brilliant woman that France had ever had the fortune to meet. Short-cropped blonde hair held back by bobby pins, wide blue-grey eyes that looked to him with wonder, slender hands that he wanted to bring into his own.

 

His dreams consisted of fire, and ashes falling all around him to paint his face in soot.

 

Of running until his legs felt ready to give out, and still, not getting to her in time.

 

Of her scream, of her last smile, of her dropping her cross into the flames – of having to dig it out of her ashes when it was all over, and cry.

 

Sometimes France believed he was over it. But then he would catch sight of a church, or a young woman’s body similar to hers, and he would feel that loss all over again.

 

No; when the others felt the death of a Saint weigh down on their shoulders… then they could speak of loss. Until then it was just a misconception.

 

Until they could feel the guilt that he had felt…

 

_If only I’d been faster… I could’ve told her everything._

_If only I’d been faster._


End file.
